


Stripper AU

by Mimi011



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Desperate times call for desperate measures, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Stripper AU, Strippers, protect baby Deaky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-27 23:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16712545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimi011/pseuds/Mimi011
Summary: Tumblr Prompt from queenslasharchive: "When is someone gonna write a stripper au?"Freddie grows suspicious when Roger and Brian start spending money they couldn't have made from one of their pub performances. Little does he know they are about to introduce him to a whole new world.





	Stripper AU

“Now, I know you’re the astro-whatever here, and I’m just a design student,” Freddie turned on Brian as he put red special back into its case. “But you’re wrong to think I’m stupid enough not to notice the discrepancies between us all.”

The guitarist cocked his head in confusion, hair bouncing at the movement. “What are you on about?” he asked.

“”Oh, come on, darling,” the singer tapped his foot impatiently and gestured to Brian’s guitar. “Your new case? Roger’s new fur coat? You two going out every night?”

Roger’s brow furrowed, and he started aggressively, “What’s it to you, Bulsara?”

Freddie worried his bottom lips, staring down at the floor. He thought over his words for a moment, before deciding on, “I think you aren’t giving me my whole pay.”

Brian and Roger looked at their frontman in surprise, and then distaste. “You really believe we’re not splitting even with you just because we’re buying stuff and you’re not?” Brian asked.

“I can barely afford food and rent,” Freddie said bitterly. “If we really are all making the same money, then how come you two can go out clubbing every night?”

“Clubbing,” Roger repeated in exasperation, shaking his head. “Right to assuming the worst of us, is it? We’re not out clubbing- we have second jobs, you bloody moron.”

For a moment, Freddie’s mouth opened, ready to spit a nasty comeback before realizing what Roger said. He shut his mouth. His tapping foot stood fell flat against the ground, and he spun away from his band-mates to stuff his songbook into his backpack, a sour expression on his face.

“Seriously, mate- you’re too high-strung,” said the drummer, brushing off Freddie’s accusations.

Freddie said nothing. He kept his back to his band.

Brian took notice of the shift in his friend’s mood. “Mate, is everything alright?”

The sound of Freddie closing the zipper on his backpack seemed to resonate through the room. He slung it onto his back and made for the door. 

“C’mon, Freddie,” Brian stood and grabbed his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

Freddie stood still, staring at Brian’s hand. His gaze turned up to the guitarist’s face, a conflicted expression overcoming the singer. He licked his lips.

“I think my landlord’s going to evict me,” he admitted, not meeting Brian’s eyes. “I’ve been late with rent too many times- and I can’t ask my parents for money, because then they’d know I was fired from Heathrow. And if they knew that- God, I can’t- I don’t-” he swallowed heavily, and with a shuddering sigh, finished, “I don’t know what they’d do.”

Brian stared at Freddie, wondering what more was going through his friend’s mind. He spared a glance back at Roger. The drummer looked equally concerned. They were close enough friends to know that the Bulsara’s were a touchy subject for Freddie- particularly his father. But then again, what wanna-be rockstar ever had a good relationship with his father? 

“Look, Freddie,” Brian said. “You know you can ask us for help, right?”

Freddie shot him a look. “What, ask you for money?”

“Well, yeah, if you need it that badly-”

“No, Bri- I couldn’t ask that of you,” Freddie shrugged the guitarist’s hand off his shoulder. 

Brian pressed, “I have extra cash- it wouldn’t hurt me to lend you some-”

“But see, that’s where the problem lies,” the singer interrupted. “You can lend all you want, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to pay it back.”

“You don’t need to pay me back.”

“Yes, I do-”

“Bloody hell,” Roger broke into the debate. “If you’re so needy for money, just get another job. Here,” the drummer took a pen and an old receipt out of his coat pocket and began to write. “This is our manager’s number. Foster’s always looking for fresh meat.”

Before Roger had the chance to hand Freddie the slip of paper, Brian snatched it out of his hand. The taller brunette sent Roger an angry, disappointed look.

“No way in hell am I letting you drag him into Foster’s business,” the guitarist growled venomously, glaring down at Roger. 

Roger scowled. “Freddie’s a grown man. He doesn’t need a nanny,” he said, grabbing the receipt back from Brian and passing it to Freddie. “We make good money with Foster. It’s not glamorous work-” Brian rolled his eyes, “-but it’s good money.”

Freddie looked between his band-mates, confused by the exchange.  

“What is it that you two do, exactly?” he asked. 

It was when Roger and Brian shared a look, a deviant glint in the blonde’s eye and an embarrassed blush on Bri’s cheeks, that Freddie knew it was something he should probably steer clear from. That only made it more intriguing.

 

-

 

“My father would kill me if he saw me now,” Freddie murmured as he took in his reflection. 

He felt too exposed in only a tiny, black g-string that Roger had bought him earlier that day. The blonde said the girls would like it. Freddie took his word for it. In the singer’s honest opinion, he looked too gangly, too hairy, despite Brian and Roger reassuring him he looked fine.

“Good thing he isn’t here, then,” Roger told him from across the dressing room. “I’d rather not mop up any blood tonight.”

Freddie turned to the blonde. “How are you so- so nonchalant about this?” he asked, gesturing to himself and Brian. “I feel like I have string up my arse!”

“That’s because you do,” Brian said as he adjusted the leather-gear criss-crossing Freddie’s chest. 

“You won’t mind it when women are stuffing cash into your crotch,” Roger teased, pulling Freddie’s g-string and letting it snap against his hip, relishing in the yelp it drew from the rookie. “There’s three bachelorette parties out there. I’d imagine we all make around fifty tonight.”

“Fifty?” Freddie asked, nearly incredulous at the amount. “That’s twice what I was paid at Heathrow.”

Roger smiled devilishly, “You’re in the big leagues now, mate.” He grabbed Freddie’s shoulders and turned him towards the hall. 

Outside there was music, rhythmic and pounding against Freddie’s ears. Other men in nothing but tiny underwear flitted to and fro backstage, he and his band among them. He took a shaky breath.

“Don’t be too nervous,” Roger advised, leading him to the showroom. “Not all girls like shy blokes.”

“And keep in mind:,” Brian caught up to them, his hair covered in silver glitter. “It’s just for the money.”

Freddie took a deep breath that was meant to calm him down. Instead, his heart only raced faster. 

“For the money,” he agreed, anxiety building in his chest. And with that, his band-mates led him onto the catwalk for the first time. 

 

-

 

One day, while Roger emptied a canister of whipped cream on his chest for the girls to dip their fingers in, Freddie wondered why it was so easy to get used to his new line of work. Sure, there were the first day jitters, and the second day wasn’t exactly smooth either, but after the first week he felt as comfortable in a thong as he did in a button-down and jeans. Being a stripper- or exotic dancer, or whatever Foster wanted him to be for the night- wasn’t as bad as Freddie thought it would have been. 

The money was amazing, for one. The look of shock on his landlord’s face when Freddie gave him his rent on time was worth every embarrassing moment between him and his mates during the first week. He’d been able to upgrade his white rice to fried rice at his favorite take-out place. He bought a new pair of aviator’s. The feeling of financial security was absolutely priceless, and Freddie reveled in his newfound peace. 

The routine wasn’t bad either. Play with the band one night, strip with the band the next. Roger, Brian and Freddie were closer than ever. Their music even improved, now that they had broken so many barriers between them. Nothing seemed off-limits anymore. The old Freddie would have shivered at the thought of losing his privacy, but now he knew better. He could trust Roger and Brian. Keeping secrets didn’t protect him, it hurt him. It hurt his friendships, and it hurt Queen. 

Stripping had made him more aware of himself than he’d ever been, and sometimes he even felt grateful. The profession was shameful, nasty, even, but Freddie couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt good when he heard the women crying for his attention, a dance, a soft look. Maybe it was just his way of coping with a bad situation. 

Freddie didn’t want to over-analyze his fondness for stripping. As long as it felt good, it was good, he figured.

That is, until John Deacon fumbled into the dressing room. 

Brian noticed him first. The skinny, wide-eyed little thing, gripping the straps of his backpack so hard his knuckles were white. He put his bag down on an empty chair and peeled off his jacket. His eyes darted around the room nervously, watching the other men change into their costumes and lingerie with a fearful expression.

He approached the other man carefully. “Hey,” he greeted, and the stranger’s startled eyes turned to him. “You alright, mate?”

“I’m fine,” the man said quietly, gaze trailing over Brian’s ridiculously skimpy fire-fighter’s outfit. “How are you?” he returned awkwardly.

“Fine,” said the guitarist. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I start tonight,” the stranger explained.

“Ah, first day, eh?” said Brian with forced positivity. “It gets easier- I promise.”

The man said nothing. His eyes darted to the ground.

A moment of tense silence passed between them. “I’m Brian,” he introduced himself, holding out a hand for the other to shake. A weak attempt to uphold a sense of normalcy. 

The stranger returned the greeting. “John Deacon,” he said. “My friends call me Deaky.”

“ _ Dicky? _ ” Brian croaked out a laugh, hoping he misheard. 

John’s- Deaky’s- face turned beet red. “ _ Deaky _ ,” he repeated, mortified by the mix-up.

“Oh, thank god,” the guitarist shook his head. “I was about to say, mate- a stripper called Dicky? Kind of cliche, in my opinion.”

Deaky averted his eyes to the floor, but nodded in agreement. His lips wavered, a question on the tip of his tongue, when the pair was interrupted by the loud entrance of Roger and Freddie.

“Hello, darling!” Freddie greeted Brian before rushing over to his dressing station. “Lord, I’ve been so busy, I haven’t seen you all night.”

“I just finished with a customer- she had me on a reservation,” said Brian, watching his frontman dampen a towel and clean the whipped cream from his chest hair. 

“Bloody long reservation- how long could someone possibly be entertained by a lap dance?” Roger quipped. He took his hair out of its ponytail to brush it properly. 

“Hey, now,” Brian began defensively. “I’ve been told I’m damn irresistible when I get in the zone. A good lap dance is just like a good guitar solo- you have to put your whole body into it.”

“Oh, shove it,” the drummer spat half-heartedly. 

“You play guitar?” Deaky asked. Freddie and Roger turned to the stranger, noticing him for the first time.

“Yeah, I’m in a band,” said Brian. “Do you play?”

“I can play guitar, yeah,” the younger man answered. “I play bass too.”

“Bass? Do you have your own bass, then?” Freddie asked, inserting himself into their conversation. 

Deaky glanced over to the singer before averting his eyes, a blush creeping across his cheeks at the sight of Freddie’s outfit. “I do, yes,” he said shyly.

“You any good?” Roger asked.

“I’d say so,” said Deaky.

“Excellent, darling,” Freddie said. “We’ve been looking for a bass player for a while now- how would you feel about auditioning for us?”

“ _ Us? _ ” the young man repeated incredulously. “I didn’t think the club had live music.”

“He means our band,” Brian clarified, and then introduced his band-mates, “This is Freddie, our lead singer,” he gestured, “and Roger plays the drums.”

Deaky’s eyes glanced between the three strippers. “Hold on,” he said. “So you all work here,  _ and _ are in a band together?”

“Bread on the table,” Roger said, pulling a wad of cash from the band of his underwear for emphasis. 

“Oh,” said Deaky. The three band members missed the disappointed look that crossed his face. 

Freddie fished a piece of notebook paper and a pencil out of his bag. “Here we are,” he said as he wrote. He handed the paper to Deaky. “This is where we practice. Feel free to come around 5:00 tomorrow, if you’re free.”

Deaky took the address, staring at it with wonder. “Foster’s got me scheduled tomorrow,” he said sullenly. 

“Friday then?” the frontman offered. 

“Yeah, I can stop by Friday,” Deaky said, a grin spreading across his face.

Roger clapped the bassist on the back. “We’ll see you then, mate,” he said before pulling his hair back into a ponytail. “Sorry to cut this short. Foster gets bitchy when our breaks run long- not that I care about that wanker- but there’s a rather pretty bride-to-be out there tonight that I’d like to catch the attention of.”

“Have fun,” Freddie said as Roger took his leave. His gaze fell back on Deaky, who shivered as the singer’s eyes raked over him. “I don’t think Foster would like you going on in that,” he said, pointing at the younger man’s sweater-vest. 

Deaky blushed. “I have my uh, stuff on under this,” he murmured.

“Ah, well, get undressed, darling,” Freddie encouraged, patting Deaky’s shoulder. “The quicker you get it over with it, the easier it will be.”

“Easier what will be?” asked Deaky.

Freddie sent him a confused look. “Stripping, darling,” he said. “What else?”

“Bulsara!” Roger peeked back into the dressing room. “Get your ass out here! Foster’s checking the showroom.”

The singer sent a final smile to Deaky, and said, “That’s my cue- see you later, Deaky.”

With that, Freddie trotted out of the dressing room and onto the stage, leaving Deaky alone with his racing heart. With shaking fingers, he gripped the bottom hem of his sweater. He pulled the clothing over his head as dread settled thickly in his heart. 

 

-

 

He missed too many chords- he sounded bloody terrible. Deaky was off his game, and everybody knew it. 

“Alright, let’s take a break,” Brian decided at last, sliding red special off of his shoulders.

The bassist sighed in relief and set his instrument into its case. He tried to ignore the sideways glances he was receiving from Roger and focused on finding his water bottle. 

“Here you are, dear,” Freddie extended his water to him. Deaky nodded in appreciation and took the bottle from the singer’s grasp, taking a long swig.

“Are you feeling alright, Deaky?” Brian asked him once he caught sight of the troubled look splayed across the bassist’s face.

“Huh? Oh, I’m uh, I’m okay,” Deaky answered, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Just tired, I guess. I’ve been working a lot, actually . . . .” he trailed off, staring into space for a long moment. 

Roger groaned, “Foster’s a right piece of work, innit he? Bloody prick, over-scheduling you like that- you aren’t a bloody mule, for god’s sake.”

“It’s not just that,” Deaky said. He worried his lip. “I just- I’ve been thinking . . . how do you all do it?”

“Do what, darling?” Freddie asked.

“You know!” the bassist said, waving his arms for emphasis. “ _ It. _ Posing up there, nearly butt-naked. Letting those women touch you, and still looking calm and sexy and all! How do you do it?”

The question took his band-mates off-guard. They shared a look. Brian coughed awkwardly, staring at his clogs. 

An uncomfortable minute of silence followed before Freddie burst out, “Fine! I’ll start.” He moved in front of all his band-mates. “When I’m stripping, I just put up my performer-persona and let the moves come to me. For example,” he wiggled his hips suggestively. “Not so different from performing with you all, really. It’s all about stage presence.”

“Yeah, the money’s my motivator. It’s easier to put up that front when the more you sell yourself, the more you earn, you know?” said Brian once Freddie finished posing. 

Roger nodded in agreement, “That about sums it up for me, too. Just think about the money and the posing’s suddenly easy.”

Deaky watched his other two band-mates nod along, knowing exactly what Roger was talking about. The bassist, however, couldn’t relate.

“I get that- I know it’s good money and all, I just-” Deaky ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I can’t stand the way they look at me.”

Freddie’s brow twitched into a look of concern. “What do you mean, darling?”

The bassist shook his head. “They just- those women are downright predatory. Like, last night I-” Deaky shut up quickly. “Nevermind. I just get a bad vibe from them.”

Roger stared at the bassist. “What happened last night?” he asked, taking on a serious tone.

“Nothing, just the usual. Stripping and all,” Deaky said in an uncharacteristically high voice. 

“Bullshit,” said Roger. 

“Look, Deaky,” Brian cut in. “If something happened, you know you can tell us, right?”

Deaky said nothing. Then, just like when they first met, his lips quivered. His band-mates waited anxiously for what he had to tell them.

Finally, the bassist took a deep breath, and came clean.

 

-

 

“We quit,” Freddie threw their combined resignation letters on Ray Foster’s desk. 

Their boss stared up at them in shock, anger brewing behind his unnecessary sunglasses. “You’re  _ what _ ?” their manager growled. 

“You heard me, darling,” said the singer. “We quit.” 

“Where’s this coming from, Freddie?” Foster asked. “You’re one of my best dancers- what reason have you got to quit?”

Freddie narrowed his eyes at his former boss. “Oh, as if you didn’t know already,” he spat venomously. “How many times did John Deacon come to you for help before giving up?”

“John Deacon?” Foster repeated. He laughed nervously. “Is that what all this is about? John Deacon?”

Brian leaned over Foster’s desk, using his height to intimidate the manager. “How long have you known John was being taken advantage of?”

Foster scoffed. “None of my dancers are ever taken advantage of,” he said, glaring at his employees. “You boys know that. Hell, just last week I chased out a customer who was harassing you, Roger!”

“Sure, you help us out every now and then,” Roger said. “But you know we won’t take shit from anyone. You knew John had no one to look out for him here- you let those customers get away with what they did, Foster. John is  _ nineteen _ , for fuck’s sake!”

The older man started as if to argue further when Freddie cut him off. “There’s nothing you can say to defend yourself, you bastard,” he snarled “We’re done, and that’s all there is to it.”

With that, Freddie turned on his heels and walked out of Foster’s office, Roger and Brian following behind. They didn’t stop when their manager ordered them to come back- expose their secrets, ruin their band’s career. The three left the building and met up with Deaky, who was leaning against Roger’s car, waiting for them to come back.

“How’d it go?” he asked, nerves showing through his tapping foot.

“Splendidly,” Freddie answered with a smile, sliding into the passenger’s seat. “You won’t have to go there ever again, sweetheart.” 

Deaky let out a sigh of relief he didn’t know he’d been holding in. “Thank you,” he whispered, the tension falling away from his body. For the first time in months, Deaky relaxed. 

“Anytime, Deaky,” Roger said, patting their youngest band-mate on the back. 

“Yeah, now let’s get out of here and rehearse for tomorrow,” said Brian, climbing into the driver’s seat and starting the car.

Deaky got in the car, slammed the door, and smiled as they drove away from the strip club for the last time. 

  
  
  



End file.
